There’s Wild, Then There’s You (The Wild Ones #3)(27)
Author: M. Leighton

Jet doesn’t smile or wink or make this moment cute or contrived. He just stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. Or maybe that he’s feeling me for the first time. Like I’m feeling him.

It’s the tap of the drums that bring an end to my thrall. The spotlight shuts off and the dim house lights come back on. Another song is beginning around us, but none will ever compare to the beauty of this one. Of this one song. And how Jet sang it to me.

* * *

I didn’t talk to Jet before the show, and I didn’t think to ask what I was supposed to do after. But since someone was waiting for me when I arrived to bring me close to the stage, I should’ve known someone would be waiting for me afterward as well, to take me away from it.

It turns out it’s the same guy, too. Trent, I think he said his name was. Evidently he works security for the band. And he must also handle Jet’s women, because he’s the one Jet would hand them off to when they’d crawl onstage.

“Violet,” he says when he touches my arm, “come on. Let’s get you backstage.”

I nod and move to follow him, feeling more like a wallflower than ever. I want to shrink away from all the glares and odd looks I get from the women I pass. There’s no doubt every one of them would like to be going where I’m going, and it’s suddenly easy for me to see how a man could get lost in this, lost in this kind of adulation. Especially when so many of the girls are young, beautiful, and scantily clad.

Trent leads me through a series of doors to one that says AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. There’s a uniformed guard standing to the left. Trent flashes his pass at the stone-faced man, gets a curt nod, and then we walk right in.

Beyond the door is yet another world I’m totally unfamiliar with. There are girls everywhere, but back here, it doesn’t seem like they are the problem. It’s the guys.

I see the various band members scattered throughout the room. One of the other guitar players has a girl bent over his arm, kissing her and feeling her up like they’re in private. I glance quickly away, feeling the blush sting my cheeks.

I scan the rest of the room, taking it in with equal embarrassment. The guy who plays guitar and the keyboard is having his picture taken by a delirious girl who can’t be a day over twenty. He has a female under each arm. One is licking his nipple, the other is kissing his neck and has her hand on his crotch. Just beyond them is a couch where a beautiful blonde is sitting, head thrown back, chest puffed out, letting the drummer pour champagne all over her br**sts. It’s plain to see that she’s wearing nothing but hard ni**les under her tight, white T-shirt.

My heart is pounding as I keep searching for Jet, fearing that I won’t find him, yet terrified I will. But when I do, it’s to see him coming out of what looks to be a bathroom, rubbing a towel over his bare chest. His hair is wet, like he just stuck his head in the sink, which he might have.

He steps out and glances around the room, his eyes not stopping on any particular vignette. He doesn’t seem to be surprised by what’s going on, which is very telling.

Finally, his eyes find me. They light up, which makes my stomach roll over, and then a smile spreads across his face and he makes his way across the room toward me.

I can’t help but admire him as he walks. Aside from his stunning face, Jet is absolute physical perfection. His shoulders are impossibly wide and muscular, making his narrow waist look even trimmer. His chest is smooth and broad, and both ni**les are pierced. His stomach is flat and rippling with muscles that draw my eye even farther down.

At the bottom of his abdomen is a tattoo that I didn’t see through the holes in his tank top last night. It runs across his belly, disappearing below the low-hanging band of his black pants. It’s only when my eyes drift farther down that I notice Jet has stopped walking.

In shock and horrified dismay, I jerk my eyes up to his. They aren’t laughing or playful, teasing or light. They’re serious. And intense. And as hot as the flames that are inked up his ribs.

My mouth gets dry and I remind myself over and over again why I’m here and why I absolutely cannot get involved. Some part of me is crying out that it’s too late, it’s too late, but I ignore that voice. I ignore that cry. I’m still in control. I don’t have to walk away.

Finally Jet starts to move again. Air gets trapped inside my lungs when he stops in front of me, looking down into my face yet not saying a word. I wet my dry lips with the tip of my tongue, and I see Jet’s brilliant blue eyes drop to watch me, making my whole mouth tingle in awareness.

“You were phenomenal,” I offer when the silence is just too much, too intense to bear.

His gaze rises back to mine and I see his expression soften. “Thank you. The only thing that could’ve made tonight better is if I’d been singing my own songs.”

“I thought you got to perform some of your original music?”

“Most of the time I do, but this venue wanted all cover songs.”

“I’m sorry.”

With a wry smile, Jet reaches out to brush my bangs out of my eyes. “Don’t be. Tonight was the best night I’ve had in a long time.”

My heart thunders inside my chest. “And why is that?”

He steps closer still, his thighs just barely brushing mine. I know I should retreat. I know I should keep this more . . . clinical and less emotional, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to find the will to make my legs move. I don’t think I even really want to.

“Seeing you out there made it—”

“Who’s this?” the band’s drummer asks loudly, coming up behind Jet to lean in over his shoulder, beer bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other.

I feel as much as hear Jet’s sigh. His warm breath dances over my lips and brings chills to my arms.

So close . . .

“This is Violet. Violet, this is Grady, the drummer.”

Grady sticks his cigarette back in his mouth long enough to offer me his sticky right hand. “Pleasure, Violet. You don’t look like the . . . usual kinds of girls we see back here. Are you from the Red Cross or something? Because I would happily donate any of my . . . fluids to your cause,” he leers.

My mouth drops open a fraction of an inch. Jet shakes Grady off him and pushes him back with an elbow to his gut. “Man, go the hell away! What’s the matter with you?”

“What?” Grady asks, an innocuous expression settling on his face. “I was just kidding. I thought she was . . . she was . . .”